


Never A Dull Moment

by LiveInMyHead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveInMyHead/pseuds/LiveInMyHead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A normal and familiar hunt becomes much more dangerous than anticipated for Sam and Dean. Will they make it out alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I do not own anything from the Supernatural universe.

The forest was thick and dark, the trees forming a dense canopy that all but eradicated the sunlight. It was midday, but you wouldn't know it. It didn't deter the birds, their happy trills and chirps a pleasant soundtrack to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The lack of direct light helped the lush ferns and other assorted greenery to thrive and spread over the forest floor, moss painting dead tree trunks a vibrant green. It was lovely and peaceful and it completely sucked, he thought as he tripped over a buried root.

Dean Winchester was not having a good time. His feet hurt, he was sweaty, bugs were dining on every bit of exposed flesh and he was ever so slightly hung over. Well, maybe a bit more than slightly, but that was his secret. He was cranky and just wanted to be back in the motel room with a beer and some TV.

He and Sam had been tromping over the bucolic woods for what seemed like the better part of forever and the tranquil scene had lost its appeal long ago. They had headed in at first light and it was way past that now. Drawn here by the recent reports of missing campers and day hikers that could be tracked to a twenty three year cycle, they had already found scattered remains of campsites and backpacks. Missing people plus ransacked campsites usually equated to a bear except that in this case no bodies had been found and bears didn't kill on a cycle. So wendigo it was. Awesome.

Glancing over at his brother, he could see that Sam was having his own issues. The air may have been cool and damp, but trekking uphill for several miles straight had both of them plenty warm. Swiping at a bead of sweat working its way down his forehead, Sam took a long pull from his canteen. Dean looked on enviously, then followed suit, the water a welcome balm to his throat. He glanced down at his watch, knowing that they needed to keep an eye on the time. They would need to wait for darkness for the wendigo to make its move, but they were hoping to find some signs of it first. Maybe even get lucky enough to find its lair. Because luck was the Winchesters' middle name. Right.

"Dean, it's going on one. You want to take a break?" Sam asked the question, but he was already sitting down wearily on a log, making the executive decision that he was taking a break whether Dean wanted to or not.

Dean stopped and took a quick glance around their surroundings. It was as good a place to stop as any. He joined Sam on the log, pulling his backpack forward to rummage inside for their lunch. He tossed Sam a packet of hohos followed up by some beef jerky. Sam looked down at the food items in disdain, then over at his brother.

"This is lunch?" Dean didn’t miss the tone, and bristled slightly, but then shrugged. Sam really should have known better than to put Dean in charge of provisions.  
"Hey, I got you some protein. Quit your bitchin," Dean replied, tearing into his own hoho package with his teeth. He could tell Sam that he had actually bought them some trail bars and fruit, but then he would have to admit that he forgot them at the motel. If he was getting the bitch face now, he would get that and a lecture if he admitted to that. Sam did ask him at least three times if he had everything before they left the motel, so the lecture would definitely be forthcoming. Dean was having enough fun without adding that treat to the mix, even if he did deserve it.

With a sigh, Sam bit into the jerky, tossing one last irritated glance Dean's way. Sam pulled out the map they had been marking on as they found the campsites. It wasn't much help in triangulating the potential lair of the creature as wendigos had been known to drag their victims sometimes a hundred miles away from where they were snatched, but it was better than nothing. They had been studying trees, looking for scratches from the horror show claws they sported. Studying the ground for any blood, torn clothing, anything that might have come from someone being dragged. So far, they hadn't found jack shit.

Dean looked over the map, mouth full of hoho. "At least it seems to be staying in sixty mile zone. That's pretty considerate, actually," he noted with a smile.  
"Better than a hundred miles, anyway. Let's hike to here and then set up camp." Sam trailed a finger over the map, plotting out a course.

Ripping of a chunk of jerky, Dean nodded, his eyes back up in the tree line. "Sounds good. I think it's had enough time to get our scent. I happen to know from experience that wendigos like the way I taste." It had only been a few months ago that Sam and Dean had hunted another wendigo, helping a woman and her little brother locate their other brother. Dean had ended up getting snatched and tucked away in the monster's larder for a later meal. For a change, it had a happy ending. The missing brother was found alive and everyone else had made it out of the creature's den. "Here's to hoping this hunt goes as good as that one." Dean saluted the air with the rest of his jerky, then ate that too.

Sam huffed out a harsh laugh, staring incredulously at his brother. "That's your standard of a good hunt? Dean, you had three broken ribs and four gashes that got infected because you didn't tell anyone about it. You were sick for weeks, man, half of that in the hospital."

Dean just smiled and shrugged. "Aw Sammy, no one died. Well except for the guide, but we did our best with him. At the end of the day, we saved the people and killed the creature. Job well done."

Sam smiled wanly in response, shaking his head slightly as he looked away. "Yeah, job well done," he repeated softly.

Finished with their meager meal, they silently collected up their belongings then headed out to their designated stopping point, eyes continuing to dart warily over their surroundings. They felt like they were being watched and, while they didn't know it yet, they were right.

They reached their destination just as dusk was falling. The brothers wasted no time in starting a fire and settling down to grab a quick bite to eat. Their conversation was minimal and hushed, their ears and eyes trained to the forest around them. It had become clear that they were being hunted a few miles back. When all other sounds stopped, no birds, no bugs, nothing, they knew that they had been spotted. The silence was the best clue they had. Their flare guns were ready, extra flares stuffed into their pockets. All they had to do now was wait and it was a tense wait. Wendigos were extremely fast, extremely strong and very sneaky. They could be right on top of you and you wouldn't know until it had you. They had the benefit of having backup in each other and experience dealing with these particular nasties, but that didn't make it any more relaxing.

Dean had just been getting ready to try and snatch the remains of Sam's hostess pie when they heard it; a low growl was coming from behind them. Dean immediately jumped to his feet, the flare gun held ready, his heart starting to pound as adrenaline started to rush through him. Sam followed suit, falling in behind him so they were back to back. He could feel the tension in Sam's body as they stared into the darkness. "I got nothing. You?" Dean whispered quietly.

"I think it circled around my way." Sam quickly used his foot to toss some dirt onto the fire, dampening the flames slightly. It was a good call, it had been killing their night vision.

Eyes riveted before him, Dean slowly moved forward, seeing only the vague outline of bushes and trees. The thing was smart, it seemed to know they were armed and was being accordingly cautious. His gazed moved higher into the trees, and he saw it just a split second before it was on top of him. He didn't waste the flare, he knew he didn't have a shot. Long fingers wrapped around his throat, jerking him forward, his feet dragged behind him. The other hand smacked against his wrist, his flare gun flying into the night as sharp pain radiated up his arm, his fingers springing open in reflex.

He could hear Sam calling out to him, but he was too busy trying to get some air into his lungs to discern what he was saying. He knew the creature was using his body to block Sam's shot and he tried to get his feet more solidly on the ground so he could shift away but the hand around his throat just tightened and lifted him until was held in the air. He could barely breathe before, now it wasn't even an option. Dean wrapped his unhurt hand around its fingers, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat. For a moment he was face to face with it. It was hard to believe that something that fugly was ever human. Its eyes, while misshapen and dark, held intelligence as it stared back at him. It was unsettling. Not as unsettling as its breath, though. Yikes.

Reaching into the waistband of his jeans with his other hand, gritting his teeth against the pain, he grasped the knife at the small of his back and swung it into the wendigo's throat in one smooth motion. A piteous scream left the creature's mouth as blood pulsed from the wound. The hand at this throat heaved him away and Dean was flying through the air, right into Sam who had been shifting position to get behind the creature.

They collided roughly, air rushing out of lungs, bones crashing into bones. Both tumbled to the ground, Dean landing awkwardly on his already injured wrist, a grunt of agony leaving his mouth as the pain swelled into heat and ice and nausea. Well that's broken, he thought as he immediately rolled to the side. Sam clearly had the breath knocked out of him, having taken the brunt of Dean's descent, but he was getting to his feet. Dean pulled in a few desperately needed gulps of air, then started to work his way back up, his eyes firmly on the screaming thing in front of him.

The neck wound wouldn't kill the wendigo, but it clearly alarmed it at least a little. It had pulled the knife out and flung it away, one long fingered hand wrapped protectively around its throat. Sam fired off his flare gun just as it moved, the flare hitting it in the shoulder. A roar of pain filled the air as the flare embedded in its body, the flames licking out of the wound. It wasn't a kill shot, but Sam was preparing to take care of that when he was knocked into a tree. He slumped down to the ground, not moving.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, seeing what had happened. He started for his brother, one eye on the injured creature, then his brain finally caught up with what his eyes had already seen. It couldn't be, it shouldn't be, but it was.

There were two of them. Two wendigos.

Son of a bitch.

Dean spun around, his gun already in his hand. It was a good thing their Dad taught them to shoot as good with their left hand as their right. The gun wouldn't do any significant damage to the creatures, but it was better than nothing. The other wendigo was shuffling over to the injured one, seemingly uninterested in him at the moment. He took the opportunity to dart to Sam's position, dropping down to his knees beside his brother, his eyes still fixed on the creatures across from him.  
Sam was face down, his arms covering his head. Dean rolled him over carefully, relieved to see that Sam was already moving, his face scrunched up in pain. Dean noted a scraped bump on his forehead, but didn't see any other signs of injury. He checked back on the wendigo duo and saw that they had disappeared. What the hell? His eyes darted around the woods, searching for any movement or indication of where they may have gone. There were no signs of them and the normal sounds of night started to creep back in. He never appreciated the sounds of insects quite so much as he did right then. He didn't think they were out of the frying pan yet, but the heat may have been turned down for a bit.

"Sam? You all right man?" Dean asked urgently, his voice rougher than usual. His throat felt like sandpaper, the skin of his neck hot and throbbing. It was going to be an awesome bruise.

"Yeah," Sam replied with a groan as he struggled to sit up. His hand went to his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut. Dean quickly put his gun away and placed a supporting hand behind his back to help him. Sam's eyes opened in sudden panic, sweeping over the area. "Where is it?"

"I dunno. They took off," Dean replied distractedly, checking the bump on Sam's head. He lightened up his touch when Sam winced. Sam batted his hand away, which was enough to tell Dean that he was doing okay.

"They?" Sam asked, looking at Dean sharply.

Dean sat down heavily next to Sam, needing to take a moment. His wrist was throbbing, sharp waves of agony streaking up his arm and down into his fingers. He hated broken bones. It meant at least four weeks of light duty, which meant nothing but watching TV if Sam had any say in it. After he caught his breath, he would grab the first aid kit out of the duffel. Yeah, he needed the wrapping, but he wanted the flask of whiskey more right about now.

"There were two of them," Dean said flatly, not really believing it himself.

Sam's brow furrowed deeply in confusion. "Did you get bashed in the head or something?"

Dean smirked and shook his head. "Nope. There were two of them Sammy. Hard to believe, but I saw it. We finish this up, we'll get in the hunter's book of world records!"

"Dean, wendigos don't pair up!" Sam exclaimed.

"Next time I see them, I'll let them know." Dean's sarcasm was met by Sam's bitch face and he sighed deeply when the bitch face won yet again. "I don't know man, you got one of them with the flare gun, then there was another one that tossed you into the tree. It could have had me, but it went to the wounded one. Strangest damn thing I've ever saw and I spent a week in Tijuana, so that's saying something."

"Why would they take off?" Sam wondered, frowning in confusion.

"Maybe they left the stove on? I don't know, I'm not looking a gift cow in the ass or however it goes. I'm sure they'll be back at some point." Dean had been pondering the same thing. Even injured, that wendigo could have had them and the other one wasn't hurt at all. It almost seemed like it was concerned for the injured one...He shook the thought away. Too weird.

Dean got to his feet, his arm tucked firmly against his stomach to keep it still and headed toward the duffel bag that had been discarded by the fire. Sam got up to follow him, only slightly unsteady on his feet. Spying the flare gun he had dropped, he snatched it up and started to reload.

"Dean, what's going on with your arm?" he asked, not so occupied that he didn't notice his brother favoring the limb.

For once, Dean didn't play it off. "I think it's broken. It's no biggie, just need to get it wrapped up before those bastards come back." He sat down heavily on the log in front of the fire, resting his wrist on his thigh. He hooked the duffel back with his foot and started dragging it toward him.

Sam took a seat beside him, picking up the duffel when it bumped against their feet. He pulled out the first aid kit and turned worried eyes onto his brother. Dean knew he couldn't wrap it by himself, so he didn't argue when Sam took his damaged limb gently into his hands. Dean gritted his teeth together tightly to stop the pain noises from escaping as Sam examined his wrist. Broken bone rubbing against broken bone was pretty high on his list of "worst things ever".

"Well definitely broken," Sam said with a sigh. "I'll set it and get it wrapped up. Here, take a few swigs." He offered Dean the flask. His brother grabbed it gratefully and took a long swallow.

"It's going to be rough hunting two of these things with one arm," Dean grumbled, taking another pull on the flask.

Sam looked up sharply at Dean, lips tight. The bandage he had been unwrapping was clenched between his fists. Dean knew what was next. Sam explosion coming in 3..2..1…

Fire in the hole.

"Dean, it's not going to be rough, it's going to be impossible. Just to get one of these things is practically an act of God, but two? We can't go into this injured, Dean. We need to hike out of here, get some backup. You could seriously screw up your arm if you don't get it taken care of. How much hunting do you think you'll do with one arm?" Sam exclaimed heatedly, his tone uncompromising.

Dean looked over at his brother, meeting those exasperated eyes. He had known this was coming the second he knew the bone snapped. If it were Sammy, he would be dragging them out of there, even if he had to knock Sam out to do it, then would come back and finish up on his own. He was well aware that it was a dangerous hunt to start with, and knowing that they now had double the shit to shovel through to get it done, it was even worse, but they had a small window of opportunity.

"Sam, we can't leave. They've taken enough people now that they might go back underground again. Twenty three years, Sammy, twenty three years until we get another chance at them. I've hunted with way worse than just a broken wrist, this is nothing. Besides, they've got one wounded too, so that evens the odds, right? That makes it more like one and a half wendigos! Easy as a five dollar hooker!" Dean's best high watt smile was only slightly dimmed with pain. Yeah, he knew he was full of crap and so did Sam, but if you could keep it light, that was half the battle.

"If it was my wrist that was broken, would we be heading back right now?" Sam asked tightly, not ready to give it up.

Dean said nothing, just stared his brother down with a small smile. They both knew the answer, no need to voice it.

Sam sat there for a moment, lips pursed, silently seething. He held Dean's eyes and he could see the fight in his little brother as he weighed his options. Dean could almost hear what was going through his head. Sam knew Dean which meant he was well aware that Dean wasn't going anywhere until the hunt was finished one way or another. He knew he wouldn't let Sam go alone. The thought that there may have been options was just an illusion. There was only one way this was going to go.  
Sam let out a deep sigh, dropped his eyes, and resumed unwrapping the bandage for Dean's wrist again.

"You really can make a person nuts, you know that?" Sam asked wearily, starting to position his wrist to set the bone, the wrapping resting on his thigh.

"Yeah, I know Sammy. Part of my charm," Dean replied, grimacing in pain at the slight movements of his wrist, letting the emotion flood his features since Sam wasn't looking. He knew he frustrated his brother because he didn't think he took care of himself, but the reality was that he couldn't handle knowing people might get hurt when he can save them. That pain was worse than just about anything. Especially when it was his family; his brother.

"Ready?" Sam asked, glancing up at Dean. Dean drew in a breath and braced himself. Then he nodded. With a small jerk and a slight twist, the bone was set. Dean groaned deep in his throat. For such a small movement, it caused a wave of agony to flood through Dean, the hostess pie he'd had earlier almost making another appearance. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he rode it out, waiting for the burning bile in his throat to settle back down before he took another swig of the flask. God bless cheap whiskey.

Sam wrapped it quickly and tightly, checking his fingers to make sure the blood flow wasn't cut off. "This will do until we can get you to a hospital. I know it's not even worth my breath to say it, but try not to use it unless you have to, okay?" he asked, all earlier irritation and anger replaced by concern and a touch of fear. The puppy dog eyes were at full force, silently pleading for Dean to take it easy. Dean was far from immune from that gaze and Sam knew it. He would listen to him, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

"You got it, Dr. Winchester. I'm not going to mess with my power hand, the Busty Asian Beauties must be worshipped properly," Dean replied with all seriousness. Sam actually smiled a bit, a definite win.

He flexed his fingers experimentally, glad that he still had some movement. Should be just enough to pull a trigger if necessary. It still hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was manageable. He wouldn't mind a few more swallows of the whiskey, but they still had two wendigos to track down, so he needed to stay sharp.

"You sure your head is good?" Dean asked gruffly. He had been watching Sam closely and didn't see any signs of concussion, but he wanted to be sure.

Sam nodded, grabbing some over the counter painkillers out of the kit. "Yeah, a few of these and I'll be fine."

Grabbing the flashlight out of the bag, Dean started sweeping the area for his lost flare gun. Sam starting repacking the first aid items into the duffel bag, his own flare gun still held ready in his hand. The dull glow of the fire faded as Sam kicked more dirt over it to put it out. Dean kept his wrapped hand against his body, letting it hang down made the throbbing worse. The woods around them were still buzzing with the typical night noise, but he scanned through the darkness every few seconds just to be sure as he pressed further into the trees. Those things had gotten the jump on them last time; he didn't want that to happen again.

The flare gun was found about fifteen yards from where it had been knocked away from Dean's hand, the distance highlighting the reason his wrist was broken. He picked it up, checking it over. It was dented on the side by the trigger, but the barrel looked straight. He counted himself incredibly lucky that he found it at all. Sam was a few feet behind him, his own flashlight highlighting a tree. Dean followed the stream of light to the smear of blood on the trunk. It was fresh.

"Looks like our friends went this way," Sam noted. The blood was high up on the trunk, around Sam's shoulder, so it was clearly from the wendigo they had injured. Sam moved the flashlight up the tree, checking for any movement in the branches, but aside from the glowing eyes of some small mammals, all was still. Dean was checking below, looking for broken branches, disturbed stones, blood on the leaves. He saw further signs that the creatures had come through there, a new fir knocked to the side, a scratch along another tree like it had needed to catch itself from falling quickly. All good news. It was injured enough that it wasn't taking to the trees and wasn't as stealthy as it would normally be.

"Let's keep following along here. Keep your eyes open," Dean shoved the flashlight into his wrapped hand, forcing his fingers to close around the barrel. The dull throb of his wrist spiked back up into sharp jabs of pain at the movement. His jaw clenched to keep the groan that filled his mouth in. He didn't want to worry Sammy any more than he already was. He rested it on top of his left hand that was holding the flare for support and also to highlight his way. It wasn't comfortable, in fact the pressure hurt like hell, but it would have to do.

"Let's get this shit show on the road," he grumbled, moving forward.

He was down to one good hand, Sam was worried for, and possibly pissed at, him, they had two wendigos to deal with, the whiskey was running low, and they were out of hostess pies. Shit show pretty much summed up the situation.

###### 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean and Sam were excellent trackers. Their father had taught them well what to look for to find their prey. He explained to them that the places to look weren't necessarily right in front of you at eye level, they were lower and higher, out of the corner of your eye. They had started with animals. It didn't take long for them to learn the many different ways a path could be found. Had they the desire, they would have made excellent game hunters, but the idea of killing Bambi had no appeal to either of the boys. A fact they made clear quite loudly the one time it looked like their Dad might actually pull the trigger on one of those training exercises, allowing the deer to escape their father's sights. He hadn't minded, he had no intention of harming the animal.

It was different hunting monsters. The many different flavors of baddies they hunted came in various shapes and sizes and usually had the foresight to hide themselves. Not only did they have the intelligence to be cunning and unseen, they usually had other abilities that made them much harder to track. Some had inhuman strength and speed, some had the ability to fly, or even disappear. They could cloud your mind so you couldn't see them, or couldn't even react if you did. They didn't all hide in the woods; they hid in buildings, houses, plain sight. It was always an adventure, no doubt.

So it didn't take long for them to realize that the splatters and smears of blood, the bent and twisted underbrush were all just a little too convenient to be the results of something blindly running through the woods.

They were being led.

Sam hunkered down by another mound of dirt that had been pushed up by a foot digging hard into the ground and then moving forward. Dean shined his flashlight to the right of Sam's shoulder so he could better see his face without blinding him. Judging from the irritated twist of his lips, he had definitely come to the same conclusion.

"They want us to follow them. This is just nuts, Dean. Have you ever heard of this kind of intelligence from a wendigo? I mean, I know they aren't exactly stupid, but this is just off the charts," Sam asked quietly in confusion, shining his light around the general area to look for any additional signs of the creatures.

"I hear ya, Sam, doesn't make any sense. I'd say let's call Bobby, but our cell service abandoned this party a few miles back." Dean let his hands drop down, drawing the injured wrist into his chest, but maintaining the position he'd had with the gun and flashlight. If he let himself rest and baby the limb now, he wasn't sure he would be able to force himself to do it again. It was hurting like a mother and, while the sweet Mulder and Scully stance looked really cool and was pretty functional, it wasn't helping the pain at all.

Sam caught the motion, following it with concerned eyes. "How's it doing?'

"Peachy," Dean bit out with a pained smile, not quite up to his usual response of "Fine". Sam didn't take his tone personally. Dean was sure he didn't expect any different answer and there were no follow up questions for a change.

"Well, if they are leading us along, then we're walking into a trap. And based on the trail they've left, I'm thinking it could actually be a good one," Sam remarked, standing back up, eyes still warily moving around the darkness.

"Trap or no trap, it's the only game in town. At least we'll know where they are when they spring it, right? Bright side, Sammy, it's all about the bright side." Dean's cheer had faded along with the floaty bit of pain killing numbness the whiskey had given him and his voice came out strained and hoarse.

Sam eyed him with that look that said he was troubled about Dean's condition, but that he knew he wasn't going to get anywhere fast arguing with him. He was going to do it anyway, though, Sam could rarely resist making a point. "Bright side? We've never hunted wendigos plural at the same time, Dean! And never any that have shown the cleverness that these things have. This just doesn't feel right. It feels like we're walking right onto a missing persons poster," he expressed, moving closer to Dean so he could keep his voice low, even though he just wanted to scream it out.

"Think they'll use my "Blue Steel" mug shot?" Dean asked with the most winning smile he could muster up. Sam's face went from worried and anxious to irritated and done. No sense of humor, his little brother, none at all. Dean sighed, realizing it was time to get serious. "Look, I get what you're saying, I do, but this is our job, we have to wrap it up. We'll figure it out, we always do."

"Yeah, until we don't and we're dead," Sam interjected, lips tight with frustration. Dean's attempt at reassurance was once again a resounding fail.

"Listen to me Sam. We're not getting taken out by some skinny cannibals with a bad manicure. It's not happening. We are way too epic for that. So let's go show them what happens with you fuck with the Winchesters, huh?" Dean kicked Sam's ankle lightly since he still wasn't up to giving up the death grip he had on the gun and flashlight and hitting him in the chest like he normally would.

Sam looked down at the ground for a moment, still fighting with his instinct to take off. It wasn't a bad one, in fact, it just illustrated yet again that Sam was the smart one, but Dean couldn't walk away, and he knew Sam couldn't either. He finally looked up at Dean again, the slight upward slant of one side of his mouth telling Dean everything he needed to know. He was in.

"Epic, huh?" Dean just shrugged. "All right, let's do this then. For the record, I will say 'I told you so' if, and probably when, this goes into the crapper," Sam warned  
"Noted," Dean replied with a nod.

They set off again, following the obvious path the creatures had left for them. It was almost insulting, a four year old could do it. The brothers were doing their part to acknowledge the threat level. Every step they took was purposeful and silent. They split the dense forest between them so that they could cover as much ground with their eyes as possible. They didn't speak, all conversation reduced to military hand signals and eye gestures. The only hiccup was Dean's fight to avoid upchucking when he almost stepped into the rotting carcass of something small and previously furry. Sam had his own battle on his hands trying not to laugh as his brother gagged.

After what felt like a small eternity, but was really only an hour, they realized that the signs had trailed off. They hadn't found any blood, busted branches or disturbed earth for nearly fifteen minutes. They had been finding some sort of marking every five minutes or so. Maybe they had been wrong, maybe the wendigos weren't leading them along. Maybe they had finally took to the trees or gone to ground.

Or maybe not.

Sam was abruptly jerked backwards with a shout, his arms flying up from the momentum, legs flailing and trying to keep his balance as the creature bore him down to the ground. Claws bit down into his shoulder as he was shoved down, blood blossoming over the fabric of his jacket. Dean saw the wendigo behind his brother, taking note that it was the one Sam had injured. It was clearly looking for some payback. Dean steadied his hand to fire the flare gun when he felt a disturbance in the air behind him, a movement out of the corner of his eye. He dropped down immediately, rolling to the side, barely escaping the claws that swished above his head. That would have done a number on his back for sure.

Without another moment of hesitation, Dean fired on the wendigo still looming above Sam. The flare caught it in the chest, a definite killing blow. Its high pitched scream drowned out the reassuring hiss of the flare as it caught, followed by the crackling of flames. He didn't wait to see any more, he rolled again towards Sam, figuring the other wendigo was pretty pissed at this point and was going to be coming for him. He ignored the screaming agony of his wrist as he jostled it and choked down the bile that decided to rise back up again. There wasn't time. He didn't think Sam was injured badly, but he didn't know for sure.

Once he reached Sam's side, Dean turned quickly to see where the other creature was. It wasn't where it had been and he didn't see it in his general sight range. His gun was empty and he didn't have time to reload right now. With his wrist, it would take too long. He either had to get Sam's or give Sam an opening to kill it. Sam was rising to his knees, flare gun still held steady in his hand.

"You okay?" Dean shouted to be heard over the flaming corpse on the ground next to Sam. His brother nodded, grimacing in pain as he clutched his bloodied shoulder. "Do you see it?"

Sam shook his head. "It saw its buddy light up and it took off. I didn't see where," he gasped out.

Dean wanted to get a look at Sam's wounds to make sure there wasn't anything life threatening that needed to be addressed right that minute. He didn't think the wendigo was done with them this time.

"Load this up, I'm going to take a look at that," he ordered, handing Sam his empty gun, who immediately started to pop in a fresh flare. Sam's eyes flicked up every few seconds, looking for their other pain in the ass. Dean moved Sam's jacket aside, inhaling sharply when he saw the shredded shirt underneath. It looked like the wendigo had dug his claws in, then raked them backward. Lifting the sodden material, he could see four parallel gashes that started at the top of his pectoral muscle and wrapped over the top of his shoulder. The wounds were bleeding sluggishly, so weren't deep, but the risk of infection was high. Wendigos didn't exactly use hand sanitizer.

"Well I've seen worse." It was true, but he still hated to see Sammy in pain. He knew his brother was tough, but he always wished that he had been the one to take the hurts, not Sam. "We'll make sure the other one has taken off then we'll get it cleaned and stitched, okay? You'll be all right," Dean promised with a smile.

Sam nodded and started to hand Dean back his flare gun when his eyes widened as he looked over his shoulder and he shouted "Dean!"

Several things happened at once. Sam reached out to grab Dean away when he saw the wendigo come up behind him, aiming the flare gun at the shape over his brother's shoulder. Dean saw the trajectory of Sam's gaze and started to twist to the side to give Sam a better shot at the creature and hopefully avoid it himself. Both movements were thwarted by a long fingered hand wrapping around Dean's throat, his back arching as he was pulled up and away from Sam. Man, not the  
throat again! He saw Sam taking aim at the part of the creature that wasn't blocked by Dean's body and he smiled, knowing that the son of a bitch was toast.

It must have known it too.

Dean would have shouted out in pain if its grip around his throat hadn't been so tight when he felt sharp nails pierce into the right side of his back, white hot agony exploding through his body as they pushed in as far as they could go. All he could manage was a gasping gargle as blood erupted into the back of his throat, filling his mouth with the hot, metallic fluid. It must have pierced his lung, he thought with a worrying detachment.

There was a woosh of sound and then screaming. He registered heat at his back. Sammy got him. That's his boy.

The fingers in his body were withdrawn, the hand around his neck releasing him as the creature fell to the ground. He dropped forward, face first into the dirt. He didn't even have the thought of bracing his fall, it was taking all he had to try and get oxygen into his lungs. He knew he should move, knew he had to tend to Sam's injuries and his own, but his body wasn't obeying his brain. His chest felt cold and wet inside, weak coughs expelling blood over his lips onto the ground.

Dimly, he heard Sam scream his name. He lifted his head and tried to focus on Sam hovering above him, his mouth still moving, but he couldn't make sense of what he was saying. There were two of him, no three, all jockeying for the position of real Sam. He felt numbness creeping over his body, the pain more distant, and he knew that wasn't a good thing. Pain meant you were alive. You may wish you weren't, but you were. Numbness was nothing. Numbness was an exit door. All she wrote. The fat lady is a'singin'.

Dean smiled slightly at his internal rambling. Yep, he was on the way out. At least he wasn't leaving Sammy alone with wendigos on his ass.

He wasn't sure when his eyes closed, only knew that when he decided he wanted to see his brother again, he wasn't there. Nothing was, just an unending black filled with shooting stars. It was too much work to open them again, they were so heavy. Too much work to breathe, someone was sitting on his chest. To move.  
"S'my," he muttered. At least he could speak. Kind of.

"Oh God Dean, I don't…you're going to be okay. You'll be all right. Just open your eyes, okay Dean? "

He wanted to, he really did, he just couldn't. The dark was so nice. It was pulling on him, wrapping around him like a comfortable blanket. Synapses were firing in his brain urging him to fight it, to move, but he just couldn't.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Sam was going to get to say his "I told you so". Dammit.

"Please, you have to. Dean, please."

Choked off sobs, broken voice. His little brother. He was in pain.

The baby was crying. He had to get to the baby, Sammy needed him. If he could just get his eyes to open. Screw the dark, it was a lie. But the darkness was strong and his body was weak. It surged up and pulled him under.

He was submerged beneath fluid, thick and dark, filling every crevice of his body to surround him completely. It was cold and numbing, silent and comforting. There was something outside of it calling to him, drawing him forward. He didn't want to go, he knew that coming out of here was going to be nothing but pain and awfulness, but there was a part of him that knew he had to abandon this safe place. That it really wasn't safe at all, that it was a place to wait for death. That there was someone out there waiting for him that needed him awake.

It was sticky and resistant, difficult to pierce, but he was rewarded with more clarity to those sounds. The muddled, non-distinct tones became his name, popping through the hazy bubble of unconsciousness with finality.

Sammy.

The pain followed as if it had never been gone at all, not coming back to him slowly, but all at once, his breath catching in his throat as it overwhelmed him and threatened to throw him back into that silent river of oblivion. He couldn't stop the cry that tore out of his throat as he haltingly tried to move his hands to the source of that pain, finding that it was in too many places to pinpoint. The sound was followed by coughs that tore through him like knives shredding his lungs and throat, thick wetness filling his mouth.

"Dean! Oh thank God. Stop moving, okay? You need to be still."

There was panic in his brother's voice, it was strained and halting. He remembered that Sam had been hurt, but couldn't recall how bad it was. It sounded like Sam was in trouble. As alarm filled him, he tried to open his eyes, not understanding why it was so hard to do. It was like they had been glued shut. He needed to see his brother, make sure he was okay.

"Sammy?" he whispered, barely audible.

He could feel wet dirt against his mouth as his lips moved, the smell and taste of blood thick in his nose and the back of his throat. He was lying on his stomach and there was pressure on his back. The events that put him here were trickling in slowly and he knew that the agony radiating through his back and torso was from being impaled by some nasty wendigo claws. He'd been slashed by them before, thrown, had bones broken, but never had the joy of actually being stabbed by one. His Dad would be impressed.

The battle to open his eyes was finally won. He was greeted with the sight of his brother's knees. He dragged his eyes upward to see him leaning over his back. Dean noted that he had taken off his jacket and he could see the wounds on his shoulder through the rips in his shirt. They didn't look too bad, but could probably use some stitching. Not to mention a serious cleaning. He couldn't see his face, just the thought of moving his head was enough to make him want to ralph, but then Sam moved back into his line of sight. There were tears tracing their way down Sam's face, but his color was good. Sam looked okay and he sighed in relief. His eyes started to drift closed again, the pain starting to dull back down, promising that painless nothing on the other side.

"No, Dean, stay with me. You need to stay awake," Sam commanded, leaning down so that Dean could see his face without strain. His floppy bangs fell into his eyes and he tossed his head back to clear them. Dean quirked a smile, but didn't have the strength to say anything. Such a girl, with that ridiculous hair. Both arms stayed draped over his back. Dean figured that was the pressure, Sam trying to keep the rest of his blood in his body.

Dean focused in on Sam's face with some effort, noting the sheer terror in every line, the sweat on his upper lip, the overwhelming panic in his darting eyes. It told him everything he needed to know; he was hurt bad. He knew he wasn't in good shape, the chorus of all his various hurts shrieking along his nerve endings like dull knives made that clear, but he was used to pain. He could always count on Sam to fix him up. The only time he had ever seen Sam this worried was when things were really bad.

When Azazel ripped him open from the inside, followed up by a car accident for dessert.

When he'd been electrocuted along with that Rawhead.

When a werewolf had practically eviscerated him.

When a ghost had thrown him out a fourth story window.

The times he had nearly died.

"Be ok, Sam," he forced out of his raw throat, needing to wipe that tragic look off of Sam's face. It didn't work. In fact, he looked worse, tears overflowing his eyes all over again. A bubbling cough shot back up into his throat and he spat out what had come up. He couldn't see it on the darkness of the ground, but he knew it was more blood.

"It's not good Dean. I think it must have nicked your lung, maybe some other things inside. You're bleeding so bad and we're so far from the car..." Sam's voice trembled to a stop as emotion overwhelmed him, his eyes shutting as he fought for control.

Dean didn't think he could feel any more pain, but knowing that Sam was thinking that he was about to watch him die without being able to do anything about it just about did him in. This was not acceptable; he had walked away from worse. He wasn't ready to go yet, he had too much to do. And he definitely couldn't leave Sam out here alone, who knows what the hell else was lurking around out here? He didn't just mean the woods, either. He wasn't going to abandon Sam.

Gathering every bit of his waning strength, he reached out a hand, biting back the groan that rose up. He rested it on Sam's knee, the best he was going to be able to do at the moment. Sam's eyes jerked back open, a bit of hope just on the edges. Dean blinked at him slowly, the lifting of his lids coming slower and slower. It was getting really hard to stay awake. To breathe. To think.

"Patch me up best you can, Sammy. S'not that bad, just hurts."

His words didn't sound too clear to him, having to work their way out of a brain and mouth that were barely functioning, but Sam understood them well enough because he was doing that incredulous chuckle he always did when Dean was trying to make him feel better, no matter how hurt he was.

"Not that bad. Right Dean," he choked out, the tears thick in his throat.

Dean smiled the best he could, not knowing that the exposure of his blood covered teeth were going to completely chase away any semblance of reassurance he had been attempting to provide. Sam went silent above him. Sam stared down at him intently, his blue-green eyes wide and frightened. Dean peered back up at him, not sure what else he could do, only knowing that he trusted Sam implicitly to take care of him. Whatever Sam saw in Dean's gaze had been enough. The fear was replaced with resolve, the panic with calm. Dr. Sam was in the house.

"You're gonna be okay, Dean, I'm not letting you go anywhere," Sam reassured him with a shaky smile.

Dean returned it as best he could, feeling his eyes shut again. He jerked them back open hearing shuffling on the ground next to his head.

Sam reached for the duffel bag that was now by his side, pulling the first aid kit out. Dean figured he had lost some time there, it hadn't been there before. Well, maybe it had. Hell, Bigfoot could be giving him a foot massage and he wasn't sure he would notice. The pain was more dull now, felt deeper inside where he couldn't feel as well. He wanted to be grateful for that, but he knew that probably meant shock. Judging by the blood that was coating Sam's hands, clear up past his wrists, probably was too uncertain a word.

"I need to sit you up, Dean. That will help your breathing," Sam explained, his voice low and measured. He was trying to be soothing. It was cute, really. Reminded him of when Sam was ten and done his first set of stitches in Dean's back. He had talked like Dean was a skittish horse, but he knew it was really Sam's way of keeping himself calm. Whatever his little brother needed to do was fine with him, no one did stitches smaller or straighter than his Sammy.

"Breathing would be good," Dean mumbled, propping his hand under him to push up. He went to bring the other one down to do the same, then cried out at the painful reminder that he had broken his wrist and fell back onto the ground. He had completely forgotten. Seemed just a bit insignificant when you had five razor sharp fingers tear through your back.

"Dammit Dean, stop moving, let me handle it," Sam gritted out. Dean wasn't about to argue at that moment, he was having to wage another battle with unconsciousness from that small movement. Hitting the ground again definitely didn't help matters.

Sam kept one hand at Dean's back, maintaining the pressure, and used the other to grab Dean's shoulder and lever him up. Dean couldn't stop the scream that tore out of him as muscles pulled and shifted to support the new position. Eyes squeezed shut, breathing became a monumental challenge, jaw clenched tightly. He had to just ride it out. Sam was talking to him urgently, but there were bells going off in Dean's head that all but drowned it out.

He must have blacked out again because he found himself fully upright when his eyes opened, his jacket and jean button down shirt lying across his lap, t-shirt rucked up against the back of his neck. He didn't recall any of that happening, so knew he must have stepped out for a minute. He wasn't fully back, everything was still hazy and distant.

Sam had one arm slung around his chest to support him, the hand wrapped around his shoulder. It was nice and warm where Sam was holding him, he was freezing everywhere else. Sam was right, at least breathing was a bit easier in this position. He could still feel an odd pressure squeezing his chest the bubbling rattle of blood with every breath, but he finally felt like he was actually taking in some oxygen again.

Dean turned his head slowly trying to see what Sam was doing, but he wasn't really able to see. "Sam?" he rasped out, his good hand patting the arm around him. Sam's head popped in over his shoulder, his features tense and focused.

"Just hang in there Dean. I'm stitching you up best I can," he said with a strained smile. He moved back to his former position so Dean couldn't see him. He could vaguely feel the prick and pull of the needle and thread, but it was too far down the pain scale to really be noticeable. "Once we get you help, they'll have to just take them out to get to the damage inside, but at least this will help keep you from bleeding out," Sam continued from behind him.

Dean knew he was fuzzy, hell he was downright gone for the most part, but he could hear the manic optimism in Sam's tone. He wasn't sure what his little brother was seeing back there, but it couldn't be good because Sam was scared. He was trying to be tough, trying to keep from worrying, but it was clear as day to the big brother that knew him better than anyone.

"You really think we're gonna get help, Sam?" Dean asked quietly, his voice flat with bleak honesty. He didn't want to say it, didn't even want to think it, but even his dulled out mind knew that it was unlikely he would survive the night. He wanted to fight, wanted to stay strong for Sam, but he could feel the weakness crawling over him, draining him of strength and will. His body was giving out. He knew that time was running out for him.

Sam's hand tightened on his shoulder, the movements on his back stopping for just a split second before resuming. "We're only ten miles or so out of cell phone range. We can do that in our sleep! It's going to be fine, Dean," he answered, his voice bright with hope, but Dean could hear the undercurrents of panic.

"Can't walk, Sammy," Dean whispered in defeat. He could barely keep his head raised. He was hardly even aware of anything below his waist, getting up and walking was as likely as flying at this point. His body was shutting itself down, trying to close off the extremities to protect the core, or something like that, he catalogued with clinical detachment. It was clear.

He was dying.

###### 


	3. Chapter 3

He must have spoken those words out loud because Sam was suddenly in front of him, eyes hard and urgent, lips trembling and tight. Dean couldn't find the strength to lift his head, but he was able to keep eye contact with his brother.

"Don't you give up, Dean. Don't you dare," Sam commanded, his voice deep and harsh. He sounded like Dad in that moment. It sounded like an order, something that Dean always responded to. More than that, though, it sounded like his little brother trying to keep it together even though he was terrified.

Dean never could ignore a scared Sammy.

He knew then that if he died, Sam would blame himself. For whatever reason he could conjure up, he would find some way to turn it around that he could have prevented Dean's injury, his death. He had already lost so much; Jess then Dad. He couldn't take another hit when he was still reeling from those tragedies. Dean knew Sam could live without him, he'd done it for four years, but not now, not when he was so fragile. Dying was not an option. Not when his brother was so damaged and might follow him.

He had to protect his brother.

With a smile, Dean nodded slightly. "K, Sammy. No giving up," he said softly, praying to whomever would listen that he wasn't lying, that somehow he could will himself to stay alive long enough to get help. Even with his body telling him that it was done. Peace out, he was on his own, it seemed to say with every weak beat of his heart, every stuttering breath.

Sam responded to that reassurance with a shaky smile of his own, the tears welling up in his eyes spilling over to trail down his pale cheeks. He lightly patted Dean's shoulder in confirmation, then swung back around to continue tending his injuries. The stitching of his torn flesh resumed, that comforting arm still supporting his weight.

Time ceased to have meaning for Dean. He was in a hazy world of pain and exhaustion that faded in and out as he lost and regained consciousness. When he was aware, Dean could only focus on breathing, trying to push air into lungs that were choking on blood. The dark spots dancing in front of his eyes kept time with the turning of his stomach from the blood loss. He was resting heavier and heavier on Sam's arm, chin lying slack on his hard forearm. He fought the encroaching darkness as much as he could, trying to keep a steady train of thought in his head to stay occupied and aware. Then he would lose the fight and it would all go away for a few blessed moments. Abruptly, he would come back to confused and panicked awareness, not remembering why he hurt and why he could barely breathe. Recollection would come back quickly when he identified the arm around him, understood that the pricks and pulls on the skin on his back were stitches. Then it would begin again, he would go through the same hellish routine, only breathing was even harder, the battle to stay awake lost faster and faster each time.

He must have truly passed out for an extended period as the next time he came to, he was being dragged backwards through the woods. Bleary eyes noted that his feet were propped up on long branches that ran the length of his legs. His head lolled around on his neck, his eyes squeezing shut as he caught sight of the trees and other vegetation passing him in the opposite direction, the dizzying display pushing his stomach into his throat. After a moment of trying to steady the heaving in his gut, his head rolled to the side, peering out again cautiously.

A glance down at his arms revealed that he was wearing Sam's old ratted brown hoodie. There were branches against his arms, which came up past his head. Hands were wrapped around them, familiar hands. Sam. A burst of clarity broke through the fog in his brain. His brother had built a travois. Such a boy scout.

"Sam?" he called out. He was startled at the sound of his voice. It was weak and hoarse, barely audible even to him. Just that one syllable rumbling out of his throat sent him into another coughing fit, the weakest one yet. His chest barely moved, there was not enough air to fully propel out the liquid in his lungs, so he ended up just breathing it back in again with the next shallow breath. He felt the pull of the stitches at his back as the muscles tightened. It wasn't so painful anymore. It was just dull and aching. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't identify that as his continuing descent into death, but he was far gone enough not to care that much.

Sam must have been alerted that he was awake from the coughing. He didn't stop the movement of the makeshift sled, but he did slow down slightly. "You're going to be okay Dean. Just hold on. You have to hold on," he called back, panting with effort.

Dean wished he could say more to Sam; congratulate him for his ingenuity in making the travois, make sure he was doing okay, but he couldn't find the strength to speak the words. His voice seemed to have fled him, the threat of coughing up more blood that he couldn't fully expel enough to stop him from trying harder. He had to focus on the now, stay present, stay alive.

He concentrated on the heat of Sam's body at his back, the harsh breathing coming from behind and high above his head.

The warmth of Sam's hoodie that smelled of his brother, the amulet bouncing on his chest as they moved over rocks and branches.

Live.

He repeated it to himself like a mantra, his lips moving silently to form the word. Live. For Sam.

His vision was starting to blur again, his breathing slowing even more. There was nothing in his head outside of the command he was sending his body, but it wasn't listening. The sensation of pain and tightness and struggle was almost gone. Relief was taking their place. Or maybe it was nothingness.

"Dean!"

The sharp sound of his name stopped his descent and he pulled himself out of the chasm he had been slipping into. He could only offer a weak "Hmmm?" in response. Sam must have eyes in the back of his head.

"You remember when Dad took us camping by that huge lake in Minnesota?" he asked after a lengthy pause, gasping out the words in between breaths. "We thought we were going to get to go fishing. We ended up having to swim laps around that lake for hours as part of our training. Made us sleep outside with only a blanket. I was so mad. I think that was when we decided we hated camping. Remember that, Dean?"

Dean did remember that. He allowed his mind to drift back to that time, eyes fixed on his lap, his chin resting on his chest. He was ten at the time. Sam had been so excited at first until Dad filled them in on the agenda. Then he was sulky and resentful, glaring at Dad and barely responding to Dean's best efforts to break him out of his funk. It was funny how Sam remembered it as an exercise in torture. Dean remembered racing Sammy in the lake, splashing him and dunking him under the water. The joyous sound of Sammy's laughter under the sun. He remembered lying under the stars with his brother snoring beside him, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, the soft cadence of crickets lulling him to sleep with a smile.

Sure there had been training involved, but it had been one of the best weekends he'd had at the time. One of the last times he actually enjoyed "camping". Dad had taken it easy on them since Sam had still been so young. It got a lot harder after that point.

"I guess that's when I started hating the woods. Haven't had a reason to change my opinion yet," Sam continued, finishing with a weak laugh. He continued to speak, but it was just noise, the words weren't forming in Dean's head anymore.

Dean knew Sam was trying to keep him engaged, get him talking, keep him alive, but he just didn't have it in him. The bouncing of the travois was jolting through his torn body, ripping through the shock that was numbing him with spikes of pain. His breath was limited to shallow gasps that bubbled and crackled in his chest and throat. He felt like he was drowning in hot blood, but was so cold inside. He couldn't get enough air.

He got lost in oblivion again.

"I have the GPS on, hurry.."

Not moving now. Where...?

"..coming Dean, just.."

A warm hand closing over his cheek.

"..eyes. Come on, look at me Dean."

Firm words, so scared underneath. Sammy?

"...be okay..."

Felt like a lie, didn't feel okay.

"...Dean..."

Leave a message, not here right now.

"...Please..."

Trying. Trying so hard, don't cry Sammy.

Fragments. That's all he could catch before he would drift again. They didn't make sense, he didn't understand why he wasn't following, but he didn't care. He was just trying to reach that voice. To reach Sam.

Warmth surrounding him. Eyes glimpse Sam's freakishly long arms wrapped around him. Home.

Time to go home.

The beeping noise creeped into the soft edges of his mind, drawing him slowly out of the peaceful darkness. The light shot into his eyes like knives and he scrunched them closed quickly. He tried again, slower, letting the brightness filter in a bit at a time. Hospital. He'd been in enough of them to know that sterile whiteness for what it was at first glance.

His body was light and fuzzy, his limbs heavy, no obvious aches and pains to tell him what was wrong. They clearly had him on some groovy pain meds. There was a cannula in his nose, the rush of cool air not enough to ease the tightness in his chest, the effort he had to put into breathing. His mouth felt like cotton wool, his tongue rasping dryly over parched lips.

"Dean?"

He turned his head to see his brother sitting in a chair beside him, a relieved smile spreading over his face. He leaned forward, hair falling into his eyes.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, "You look like shit." Sam really did. His eyes were ringed with black circles, his skin pale and drawn tightly to his face. It looked like he hadn't slept or showered in a week.

Sam laughed, his hand reaching out to close around Dean's. "Yeah, right back at you. How you feeling?"

Dean started to shrug, feeling a pull in his back that halted the movement. "Not much. Thirsty."

Rising to his feet, Sam moved around the end of the bed to the table at Dean's right. A pitcher with a cup was waiting. Dean followed his movements carefully, seeing the stiffness in his brother's left side. It looked like there was a bulky bandage under his shirt.

He remembered then. The wendigos. The claws. Bastards.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, trying and failing to add some volume to his voice. Sam was able to hear him regardless.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm fine. A few stitches, nothing major. Here," he said, holding out the cup, moving the straw to Dean's lips.

He thought to grab the cup away, he didn't need his little brother feeding him like an invalid, but his cast enclosed hand wouldn't rise to obey his brain. Damn pain meds. Give him a fifth of liquor, no problem. Two vicodin? He was on his ass, floating on a cloud of helplessness, and he was pretty sure vicodin was baby aspirin compared to what they had in his IV.

The cool liquid passed over his lips and tongue like the sweetest nectar, rolling down his aching throat like silk. That was nice. Definitely needed more of that. A few more sips, then Sam was pulling it away. Dean glared up at him to meet Sam's apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Dean, I'm not supposed to give you too much." Sam set the cup back down and then headed back over to the chair to sit down again. 

The urge to close his eyes and sleep for at least a month was strong, but Dean shoved it away. He was pretty sure he had slept plenty. Right now, he wanted some answers. "How'd you get me here?" Dean asked. He was trying to remember, but couldn't really get more than a few snippets that didn't really fill in any blanks.

The smile faded from Sam's face and he slumped back in the chair. He was still close enough to take Dean's hand again. Dean registered that it was a total chick move, but it felt good to have the contact and he could blame it on the pain meds if it was ever mentioned again.

"I made a travois out of branches and our clothes and I dragged you until I got enough cell reception to call 911. They air lifted you out," Sam started.

Dean's eyes widened at that. "Air lifted? As in helicopter?" Sam nodded. "Thank God I was out for that." He always maintained that if he was supposed to be in the air flying, then he should be able to sprout wings.

"Uh, you weren't out for all of it, but since you've managed to suppress and deny, I'll not mention any details."

"'Preciate it." Dean mumbled, glad that those memories were gone.

"You coded on the way here. Then three more times in surgery. They didn't have much hope for you." Sam didn't meet his eyes as he said those words in a strangely toneless voice. Instead, they focused on his hand resting on Dean's. The somber and weary lines of his face spoke of what he had gone through during all of that. Dean wished he could take it all away, wished that Sam didn't have to deal with that.

"People always underestimate me, it's these boyish good looks," Dean rasped, trying to get pull Sammy out of those bad memories.

It didn't fully chase away the ghosts, but Sam was at least looking at him again.

"Trust me, you weren't so pretty when they got you in here. Anyway, they fixed up your punctured lung, lacerated liver, put a cast on your wrist and put an assload of stitches in. You have a mild infection, but it’s clearing up," Sam explained.

"How long have I been here?" Dean asked, trying to process the information through his foggier than usual brain.

"A week tomorrow. They said you could probably leave in another week barring any further complications, so we'll plan to sneak you out in a few days."

Silence fell over them for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Dean was trying to piece together events, but he simply couldn't remember much past the initial injury. It was too hard to think anyway. His eyes were starting to fall shut again against his will.

"I almost lost you Dean. You can't do that to me again." Sam's words fell into that silence abruptly, but softly, the intensity of the meaning behind them not dimmed by how quietly they were said.

Dean looked over at Sam, seeing the torment that almost bordered on insanity in his eyes. Sam couldn't take another loss, he was saying it clear as day to Dean.  
"I won't Sammy," he promised, knowing that it was a promise he was unlikely to keep. Sam knew it too, though. It's not the first time he'd made that same promise lying in a hospital bed.

Sam nodded tightly, visibly swallowing back the tears that were starting to rise up in his throat. He finally released Dean's hand.

"Hey Sammy?" Dean waited until Sam looked at him before continuing, "Thanks for saving my ass, man. I knew those mutant long legs of yours would come in handy one day."

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Anytime Dean."

Dean was definitely ready to end this lifetime movie of the week they had going here. He needed to sleep and he figured he had about thirty seconds before he lost the fight to keep his eyes open.

"Go get some sleep. And take a shower. I've smelled corpses that were fresher than you. I'll be here," he ordered, his eyes cheating and only giving him fifteen seconds.

On the fringes of sleep, he heard Sam get up. A hand rested on his forehead for a brief moment. "I'll be back soon, okay?" Sam said softly. Dean nodded.

"Oh and Dean?" Sam called from further across the room. This time Dean did drag his eyes back open to stare questioningly at this brother who had stopped by the door. A smile was tilting up one side of his mouth.

"I told you so."

And there it was. Dean would have laughed if he could have worked up the energy. Instead he smiled and settled back into the pillow.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The Winchester way of saying "I love you".

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
